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“I don’t know,” I say softly, more to myself than to them. “Maybe I’m just scared of saying something too soon. Of ruining what’s finally starting to feel… steady.”
Scarlett reaches for my hand and squeezes. “You won’t ruin it. If what you two have is real, a conversation won’t break it. But silence? That can starve something beautiful.”
Alina smiles gently. “Just tell him, Mara. When he gets back. You don’t need to wait for him to make the first move.”
Yelena’s gaze sharpens with something almost protective. “You’re braver than most women I know. This part shouldn’t scare you. You have already done the scary part, and that is marrying him.”
I nod, slowly, not because I’ve made the decision yet. But because a part of me already has.
Scarlett reaches across the table and gently takes my hand, her voice soft but steady.
“Look… if you love him then tell him. It doesn’t matter who says it first.”
I glance at her, and she gives me a look that lands deep — one woman to another, no fluff, no room for self-deception.
Alina leans in, resting her chin on her hand. “Just tell him when he gets back, Mara. Don’t waste time waiting for permission to love someone who clearly already loves you.”
My lips part, but the words I want to say get stuck somewhere behind my ribs. Because part of me still wonders — what if I’ve read him wrong?
But the other part, the louder one lately, knows I haven’t.
Yelena watches me, and for once, her teasing sharpness fades into something softer.
“Like I said earlier, you already did the scary shit, which is marrying him. This isn’t supposed to scare you.”
I laugh — but it’s quiet, more breath than sound.
Scarlett squeezes my hand once more, then lets go. “Tell him,” she says, simple as that.
We leave the café with shopping bags swinging at our sides, the sunlight warm on our backs. The air smells like cinnamon and the early promise of spring.
I don’t talk much on the walk to the cars. The others chat lightly, but I stay quiet. Not because I’m brooding, but because something inside me is shifting, and hope is becoming reality.
And, when Zasha walks back through our door…
I’ll be ready and waiting to tell him out loud that I love him.
24
Chapter 20
Zasha
I step through the front door, my heart pounding in my chest. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since I last saw her, since I last felt her warmth, her touch. The trip with Viktor and Lev was necessary, but every moment away from Xiomara felt like an eternity. Now, as I stand here, the weight of her absence lifts, but is replaced by an urgency that makes my hands tremble.
The lounge is dimly lit, the evening sun casting a soft glow through the curtains. Xiomara is on the couch, her casual attire—soft shorts and a crop tank top—accentuating her curves. She’s watching TV, but the moment the door opens, her head turns. Our eyes meet, and it’s like the room is charged with electricity. Time seems to pause, the air thick with unspoken longing.
She smiles, that smile that’s always been my undoing. “Welcome home,” she says, her voice soft but laced with something I can’t quite place. She starts to rise, her lips parting as if to speak, but I cut her off. My voice is thick, raw with need. “Whatever it is, it can wait. I’ve missed you.”
The words hang between us, heavy and undeniable. She freezes, her eyes searching mine, and then the atmosphere changes, and the air seems intoxicating. Words become unnecessary, as want takes over.
I’m across the room in seconds, closing the distance between us. She meets me halfway, her hands tangling in my hair as I pull her into a kiss that’s desperate, starving. My lips crush against hers, tasting her, claiming her after what feels like a lifetime apart. Her body molds into mine, her softness against my hardness, and I can’t get enough.
We stumble back toward the couch, shedding clothes as we go. Her tank top falls to the floor, followed by my shirt. Her shorts are next, and then my belt gives way, my pants pooling at my ankles. We’re a mess of limbs and hunger, and I don’t care. All I care about is her, here, now.
She straddles me on the couch, her fingers digging into my hair, her hips rolling with abandon. Her breasts bounce with every movement, and I can’t resist. I reach up, cupping one in my hand, my thumb brushing over her nipple. She gasps, her head falling back as I lower my mouth to her chest, sucking, licking, devouring her like a man starved for sustenance.
“Zasha,” she breathes, her voice shaky, and pleading. I look up, my eyes locking with hers, and she’s everything I’ve missed, everything I’ve craved. I guide her down, positioning her so she’s hovering above me, her core teasing the head of my cock. She’s wet, so wet, and the sight of her, the feel of her, is almost too much.